Coke in the Midas Touch
by yosoyunoso
Summary: In a fairly bleak midwinter, Dean, Sam, Castiel, and Bobby find themselves battling against new weapons meant to stop all four of them in their tracks. Set mid-season five.


**Chapter One: __**

_Midas is king and he holds me so tight,_**_  
_**_and turns me to gold in the sunlight.  
- Florence and the Machine, 'Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up)'_

Early December. Snow was falling soft in Sioux Falls. A little colder than was entirely usual, everything seemed to lie in solemn silence as Dean switched off the Impala's ignition.

Stepping out of the car, it took a matter of seconds before Dean was blinking away snow from his eyes – it was really coming down, and he wished he'd brought gloves, or a hat, or you know, anything warm at all. Not to be a kid about it or anything, but it was freaking cold out here.

Sam slammed his door closed and looked at Dean with a smug grin. He lifted his hands and wiggled thick-gloved fingers. "Came prepared."

"What are you, a boy scout?" muttered Dean, shoving his hands as deep as he could into the pockets of his jeans, and scanning the building in front of them. "Doesn't look like there's much here."

They'd come to the old department store on a tip-off from Bobby, but inside, the place looked deserted: what had once obviously been an impressive and lavish shop-front was now just a shell, fallen into rusting disrepair. _'W. Edmundsen and Sons – Department Store – Est. 1901' _read the gold-plated sign above the door, but there was no sign that Edmundsen or any of his sons had been here in a long time. The windows were shattered or boarded over, and all the lights were out.

"Bobby seemed to think there was something to it," said Sam. "Maybe he was angling for us to do his Christmas shopping."

"You think they sell whisky and car parts here?"

"That seems unlikely, does it not?" asked a voice from behind them.

Dean whirled round. "Cas. Come to make snow angels?"

Castiel looked at him; cocked his head to one side. "I could endeavour, if that's what you want."

A small whirl of snow in front of them seemed to come together, contained in a violently shifting cloud. When it evaporated, Dean goggled at what was left behind: a small angel-shaped snowman, no more than two or three feet tall, with little puffs of snow wings, and a halo, and a happy, smiling, childish face. Clearly, it was singing.

"Cas, you know that's not quite - " Dean started, but then shook his head. "Never mind."

"Look at its face, though," Sam said, bending down to look at it. "It's so – I mean, it looks like what we think – what we _thought_ angels looked like – not what they actually… Cas, are you making fun of us?"

Cas cast him a sideways glance. "I would not do such a thing."

"Alright," said Dean, dragging his eyes away from the perfectly-formed feathers of the snow angel's wings. "Now that we're all here – are we going in, or what?"

"I would not recommend it," said Cas, eyeing the building warily.

Dean followed Cas' gaze, but he seemed to be looking at nothing in particular; all Dean could see was a curling sign in the window, advertising _new brilliant fashions for Spring 1971_. "You wussing out on us, Cas?"

"It seems – odd. A contingent of demons taking up residence here, so close to Bobby Singer's house."

"Not that close," said Dean, tersely. "It was like, forty five minutes drive."

Sam gave Cas a sharp look. "You think it's a trap?"

"I think we should be wary. I have a bad feeling about this."

"Okay, Luke Skywalker," said Dean, "But they're possessing a shitload of people from round here. I figure, trap or no trap, someone's got to sort this out."

There was a brief pause, before Cas nodded. "I concede your point. But I would prefer that the someone was not you, or Sam. Ideally, no-one who knows you, in fact but - " Cas sighed, resigned, "but since we are here now…"

The entrance to the store was a set of revolving doors; mahogany wood with polished gold fixings. In front of them, however, was a metal grating, padlocked to the ground at their feet. Dean bent to the padlock with a lockpicker from his jacket pocket, but there was no moving it – the padlock was resting in three inches of snow, and the mechanism – unused in decades - had frozen solid.

"Cas – could you give me a hand here with –" Dean looked up to find himself on the other side of the revolving doors, kneeling on a dusty tiled floor. "Jesus – a little forewarning, here, could you?"

"It seemed expedient," said Cas, walking away.

"We did't eve'd ge'd to be'd our dees," said Sam, and then sneezed loudly. "Is it me, or does this place need a vacuum."

"Funny, I forgot to bring one with me," Dean muttered, getting up and dusting himself off.

Straight ahead of them, a grand marble staircase ascended to a mezzanine level, splitting off into two smaller staircases to the second and third floors, which proclaimed themselves 'Upholstery and Furnishings' and 'Women's Fashion' respectively. Surrounding Dean, Sam and Cas were what had once been jewellery and perfume counters. Everywhere they turned was stacked with necklaces, bracelets and gilded lipstick tubes.

The place was decorated for Christmas – a giant Christmas tree in the middle of the hall rose up towards the high ceiling; the golden baubles surprisingly bright considering the dust everywhere else. It struck Dean as odd, until he remembered the sign in the window – new fashions for Spring 1971 – W. Edmundsen and Sons must have shut in December 1970. Still, the baubles seemed a little off.

In fact, as Dean looked around, it became more and more noticeable. Whatever dust covered the rest of the department store, the place was kitted out in bright gold decorations, so spotless it seemed as if they'd just been put up. The baubles, the makeup counters; the chains of golden beads, hanging like bunting across the landing of the stairs; a golden angel at the very top of the tree.

"Hey, Cas," Dean whispered, nodding his head towards the tree. "Found a buddy for your snow angel."

Cas followed his gaze upwards. "Why is it so polished?"

"Someone really took 'decking the halls' to heart in here," said Sam, looking around, bewildered.

A few things happened quickly after that: the first being the explosion of the jewellery counter closest to Dean, throwing gold chains, rings and earrings everywhere, and throwing Dean into a glass display cabinet, which duly shattered, scattering porcelain dog figurines all over the floor.

"Dean," Sam yelled, turning round at the sudden noise. He made a step towards his brother, and found himself abruptly rugby tackled to the floor, with Cas' hands inexplicably held over his eyes. Suddenly, there was an almighty crashing sound that shook the floor beneath them. In the ensuing silence, Cas removed himself from Sam, who looked up to see that a glass chandelier – nearly six feet in diameter – had hit the floor mere inches from his nose.

Before Sam had any chance to thank Cas or shake the shards of glass out of his hair, the air was suddenly swirling with thick black smoke. It bristled past their faces, running circles round all three of them, before manifesting on the marble stairs: a hoard of demons, all dressed in winter clothes. One even had a novelty bauble hat and a reindeer jumper. Sam would have found it hilarious, he thought to himself, were it not that the same demon was also advancing towards them with a sizeable sharpened knife.

"Sam," shouted Dean, as he found his feet again behind the jewellery counter. "How many?"

Sam tried to take stock. "I don't know; fifteen maybe?"

Fifteen. Fifteen demons, now running towards them in an Christmas department store. Sometimes, Dean thought, their lives were too stupid for words.

In the ensuing fight, the shop floor suddenly became a flurry of knives and the spark of lights, as Dean and Sam's knives found their targets. In the background, Dean was dimly aware of a demon shrieking, lit up like a firework, as Cas put a hand to its face.

Cas let the body in front of him drop, and turned - to see someone overseeing them from the top of the stairs. Sam had miscounted, Cas realised. There were sixteen demons; not fifteen. The woman on the marble staircase was dressed for the cold, like the others, but there was something different. Something that emanated from her; a sense of wrongness; something in captivity that should not be.

Cas had little time to consider it: in a heartbeat, the woman was suddenly in front of him. Near her, it was easier to pinpoint where the problem was coming from. The woman's hands gave off a wave of something _other._ They were nothing Cas had seen before – some kind of dark leatherish material, fitted, almost black, with spidery threads of gold, vein-like, running through them. Cas stared for a few seconds, puzzled - and then she grabbed his hands.

Sam couldn't say specifically what made him look up – whether it was the gasp from Cas, or the sense of stillness that suddenly came over the other demons. The one he'd been grappling with suddenly gave up entirely, staring into the centre of the room. Against his better instincts, Sam turned to look at where its attention had gone, and nearly dropped his knife.

There, in the centre of the room, was Cas and a female demon Sam hadn't spotted before. But they weren't fighting. They were… holding hands? Sam couldn't think of a better way to put it, except to say, the demon had taken both of Cas' hands in hers. Cas had dropped almost to his knees, except that the demon seemed to be holding him up. Seemed to be finishing something. Sam found his eyes meeting Dean's across the floor with a vague sense of dread; it was as if the room had frozen in place.

Abruptly, the woman let go of Cas' hands - and like that, the spell was broken: the demon pinned under Sam's hands suddenly reanimated and fought twice as hard as before.

On his knees, Cas looked up at the woman in front of him, and his world tilted dangerously. He put out a hand to the tiles to steady himself. "What have you done?"

"You all have to be stopped," she said, and looked first towards Sam, and then Dean. "By whatever means."

Dean shoved his knife against the throat of the man in front of him, pushing him back against the wall's varnished wood panelling. "What is this," he spat into the demon's ear. "What's your big game plan here?"

"Always so violent," said a woman's voice beside him, ice-cold. "Someone should put a stop to that."

Dean turned round to see the woman who'd, well, he couldn't really say 'attacked' Cas – it was more like a handshake - standing with her hand almost on his face.

With her long blonde hair and winter fur coat, she looked like she'd walked straight out of a Christmas advert, or maybe Narnia, but something here was very, very wrong. He could almost feel a static leaping from her gloves to his cheek. Dean closed his eyes – and then opened them in Bobby's living room.

"What the hell?" exclaimed Sam, next to him, staggering into the kitchen counter.

"Hell if I know," said Dean. "Cas – what did I say about giving me a warning? You can't just - "

Dean looked to Cas, and stopped in his tracks. Cas was leaning against the fridge, looking paler than Dean had ever seen. In fact, in the stillness, Dean wasn't certain he couldn't hear the angel wheezing. Dean took a step closer. "Cas?"

"I didn't have time – I had to get you out. I'm sorry. It won't – it won't happen again."

"Cas," said Sam, stepping in, "Are you alright?"

Cas straightened against the fridge. "I've – we've left your car."

"I can't believe I'm saying this," said Dean slowly, "but never mind the car for a sec. Are you - "

But Cas had already vanished, leaving Sam and Dean looking at an empty space in Bobby's kitchen. Dean slammed his hand against the fridge.

"Did that help?" asked Sam.

"No." 

* * *

Bobby watched from his chair as the snow fell in the dusk of the yard, the flakes melting and running down the windowpane. Sometimes, he wondered if his life now was mostly about listening for the slamming doors and raised voices that meant Dean and Sam were messing up his peace and quiet again. They'd gone to a bar for the night after he'd told Dean to stop wearing a hole into the floor with pacing about the living room. Truth be told though, even he was a little worried about Feathers – about Castiel – after what they'd said happened that afternoon.

Just then, there was a _thunk_ sound from outside. Bobby peered through the iced up window, and there, amongst the other cars in the yard, was the Impala; the coat of snow on her roof slightly thicker than the rest. There was a flutter of wings behind him, and Bobby wheeled round, to see Cas unsteadily leaning on the table, clearly trying and failing to catch his breath.

"Bobby," he managed to get out.

"Cas?" asked Bobby slowly, gently, as if he were talking to a frightened bird. "You alright?"

Cas shook his head minutely. "Bobby – I can't - I can't breathe - I - "

_Balls_, Bobby thought, violently, wheeling over to the table and putting one hand cautiously over Cas' right one. As he did, Bobby noted the peculiar tint to the skin on Cas' hands, which seemed to sparkle under the kitchen light, tapering to a fine gold at his fingertips. "Alright Feathers, it's alright – come on – just…"

Bobby paused, trying to work out how to tell a celestial being how to breathe. It didn't matter in the end, though, as Cas swayed on his feet and then passed out, crashing to the floor before Bobby could so much as catch him.

"Well," Bobby thought aloud to himself. "Shit."


End file.
